


Off the Pace

by Sheila_Snow



Category: Sid Halley - Francis
Genre: 10000-30000 words, Angst, Dubious Consent, First Time, M/M, Mystery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-18
Updated: 2009-12-18
Packaged: 2017-10-04 13:00:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sheila_Snow/pseuds/Sheila_Snow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sid Halley has a new mystery to solve, but this one hits a little too close to home.</p><p>I gave this some heavy warnings just to be safe, but there is nothing <i>too</i> terribly graphic here.  Do heed the warnings, however, if you have any doubts!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Off the Pace

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mo](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Mo).



> I want to extend my sincerest thanks to my awesome beta reader, Jenn_Calaelen, who did me the greatest favor in the world by telling me when something _didn't_ work. Also, to my friend and cheerleader, Ros - please leave that ‛honesty hat' on, my dear. It fits you very well! I couldn't have written this story without their input and support.

I thought I had exposed -- and purged -- all the dark, secret places in my psyche.  I'd been through enough personal trauma in my life that many things had been forced into the light, whether I'd wanted them exposed or not.  They had, however, all been due to losses.  I'd lost my wife, my career, my left hand, my self-respect, and nearly my life on more than one occasion.  Each time, I'd managed to pick myself up and remake myself into something that could incorporate those losses into a new, hopefully improved John Sidney Halley.

But what happens to your self-image when you _gain_ something? -- something you've never admitted to yourself, but must have been a part of you just the same.  Winston Churchill once said, "Men occasionally stumble over the truth, but most of them pick themselves up and hurry off as if nothing ever happened." 

I'd stumbled across a truth all right, but I wasn't sure I'd be able to run from it.

Or that the individual I valued most in the world would even allow me to.

******************

It had started out harmlessly enough. 

My detecting business had grown very quickly, mostly by word of mouth and recommendations from past clients.  From such referrals, I would often get inquiries into matters only peripherally involved with racing -- and sometimes, not involved with racing at all. 

I normally turned down such work, for two reasons.  First, I had learned from my time in the Radnor agency that the detecting business covered any number of subspecialities, and it was difficult to operate efficiently over such a broad spectrum when one doesn't have the personnel nor the resources.  Secondly, I typically had enough business with my racing clients that I didn't need to go very far afield to stay busy.

But this latest query had been so unusual that I hadn't turned it down immediately, partly out of sheer bemusement.  In fact, I would have already accepted If Chico hadn't been away visiting a sick aunt, since this was _one_ investigation he would have happily taken on.  "Just the nice gentle crooks from now on," and one didn't get much less threatening than investigating the bona fides of an escort service.

At least, that's what I had thought.

But I had put the client off, not knowing how long Chico would be away.  "You know how it is, mate," Chico had said.  "Hang around for God knows how long, hold 'er hand and make nice."  Chico was a born cynic, but the fact that he had gone to visit "the senile, old duffer" at all meant that he was fond of her, regardless of what he'd said. 

I was tempted to take the case anyway, simply because it did promise to be a relatively low effort, low risk case, and I was still recovering from my latest run-in with a desperate villain.  I had taken the precaution of acquiring the registered owner's name, but it hadn't rung any bells, warning or otherwise.

As I often did, I brought up the bizarre and unusual case with my (now) _ex_-father-in-law during my latest stay at Aynsford, his country home in Oxfordshire.  He had offered his home for me to recuperate, as he often did when his daughter Jenny was abroad and I had been injured.  Since both happened on a rather frequent basis, I tended to spend almost as much time in Aynsford as I did my own flat.

I normally left out names and specifics when I discussed my jobs, of course.  While I wasn't obligated by any strict legal necessity to keep inquiries confidential, it wouldn't help my future business if I didn't maintain a reputation for discreteness.

Not that my father-in-law, Rear Admiral Charles Roland, R.N, (ret), was in any way, shape or form a gossip.  Inscrutability was a major asset for any high-ranked naval officer, but Charles was in a class all by himself.  The old proverb says that "the eyes are the windows to the soul," and I had indeed found that I could gain insights into a person's character merely through their eyes.  Charles, however, had perfected the blank stare to an art form.  If he didn't wish you to know something, you didn't have a prayer of gleaning it from his face or manner. 

Likewise, he never passed along cases we had discussed to others.  His time in the Navy had taught him the absolute necessity of secrets in order to keep his ship and men safe, and he was well aware that anything I discussed with him in private could have devastating consequences to me if it ever reached the wrong ears.  Unless I needed his opinion on a specific individual, it was _he_ who normally insisted on a 'no names' policy on my cases.

Which was why he shocked me so thoroughly when he demanded my potential quarry's name.

"Charles?" I asked, confused.

"You heard me."

It wasn't as much the question that had shocked me, but his manner.  Charles could be courteous to his peers, abrupt with those he thought foolish, and bland when he wished to keep his thoughts to himself, but I had _never_ seen such vehemence, even when he'd first met me and thought me a sorry choice of husband for his cherished daughter.  "But I thought. . . ."

"His _name_, Sid."

Charles was staring at me, his eyes seeming to bore into mine, which was also unusual.  My father-in-law was a subtle man, who preferred to get what he wanted through misdirection and connivance rather than brute force.  If he _really_ wanted you to do something, he tended not to look you in the eye.  This new intensity was unsettling, to say the least.

Well, why the hell not.  The escort service was -- by reputation -- high class, exclusive, and known to cater to those with rather outre tastes, so I found it impossible to believe that Charles would know the man, especially considering the distance from Aynsford to Newcastle, where the service was based.

I had spent a lot of time with Charles over the last few years, and he hadn't shown the faintest interest in the opposite sex.  Jenny had told me he'd never even _looked_ at another woman since her mother had died, and it certainly hadn't been through a lack of opportunity that he was still a bachelor.  Charles was well off financially, aristocratically polite, and he looked more like 50 than his true age of 67.  He had a well equipped exercise room, which I had taken advantage of more than once during my recovery periods, and even if I didn't use it all that often, the room was never given an opportunity to gather dust.

"Very well, then," I said.  "The owner's name is Pearson, Gordon Pearson."

Charles inhaled sharply.  "You will not accept this case, Sid."

"Excuse me?"

"You _must_ not accept this case.  If it is a matter of money during your convalescence, then I. . . ."

"Charles!"  If there was one thing I still clung to, it was my pride.  He knew that with my investments, I didn't _need_ to work, so he was attempting to misdirect me again.  "You were the one who once threw me to the lions and said I could stand anything."  I tried to make it a joke, but the fact that he didn't think me capable of handling this insignificant task hurt.

He reached across the breakfast table and gripped my hand.  My right hand -- the hand of flesh and blood instead of unfeeling plastic.  I had known his touch before, as he had often helped me undress when I was feeling especially feeble.  One evening, he had practically carried me upstairs to my room when I had quite handily misjudged my endurance after having been shot.  But this time, he held me hard enough to hurt. 

But for some reason, I didn't attempt to pull away from him.  Shock had a tendency to cause temporary paralysis in some people, I understand.  It had, however, never happened to _me_.

"Sid, trust me.  This man. . . ."  He cut himself off.  "You are not ready to face this, not yet."  He stared silently off in the distance for a few moments, then turned his piercing gaze back to me.  "Perhaps someday, but not yet."

"Charles, will you please stop talking in riddles?"  I tugged at my trapped hand, feeling faintly frustrated . . . and something else, which I couldn't quite name. 

He looked down at our locked hands and seemed to start a little in surprise.  He released my hand and rose from the table.  Walking over to the sideboard, he picked up my (hopefully) temporary cane before stopping in front of me.  He reached down and gripped my right elbow to help me up from the chair.  The knee was healing rapidly, but it was still swollen enough to make major efforts like getting to my feet a tad daunting.

"Just tell me you will decline this job," he said, not moving away.

I looked up at him from our height difference of six inches.  His intensity had still not dimmed one iota, but I decided to push a little and see if anything would break.  Not always the smartest option, but it seemed to work for me more often than not, although not normally with Charles.  "How do you know this man?" I asked.

"We were . . . colleagues once."

"The Navy?"

He didn't reply, and I got the patented Charles blank stare instead, which meant I would not get anything else from him this day.

I sighed.  "All right, Charles.  If it's so important to you, I'll ring my client Monday and tell him -- respectfully, of course -- to sod off."

He nodded, his shoulders relaxing slightly.

"But someday I trust you'll tell me the story?" I asked.

"Someday, I trust I won't _need_ to tell you."

*********************

As it turned out, I didn't have to ring my client, because he was waiting impatiently for me in front of my flat in London when I arrived Monday morning.  I reflected it was probably past time to rent an office space.

"Sid!" he said, looking relieved.  "Where have you been?"

"Out," I said succinctly, mildly irritated at seeing him here.  It was much easier to tell a client you wouldn't take his case if you didn't have to look him in the eye.

I fumbled a bit with the key to the flat, and for some reason, the lock wouldn't cooperate today.  I finally had to prop the cane against the wall while I unlocked the door.

"What happened to you?"

"The usual," I said, managing to get the door open at last and beckoning him inside.

"I remember when 'the usual' involved a particularly green horse or a botch job by another jockey."

"Hmmm," I said.  I knew he meant well, but that particular loss still tended to sting a bit, even after all these years.

Christopher Hunter was the youngest son of a man I used to ride for as a young man -- briefly.  The father had been only mildly successful, having an excellent eye for horseflesh but requiring all his horses ridden with a heavy hand regardless of temperament.  He tended to apply that same theory to his hired staff.  Needless to say, we hadn't gotten along very well.  None of his sons had followed their rather brusque progenitor into the racing game. 

Chris, I had heard, was making a very successful go as an estate agent and had married an extremely wealthy woman with distant ties to the royal family.  I certainly did _not_ ask why he required the services of an escort agency.

I had considered taking on Chris' request out of nostalgia and gratitude, among the other reasons.  He had been one of the few trainers' sons who didn't look down upon jockeys as sub-menial servants and had actually stood up for me against his father on more than one occasion.  His interventions tended to be both after the fact and furtively given, but since he himself seemed afraid of his volatile father most of the time, I still had been grateful for his efforts. 

"I brought you that information you asked for."  He held out a thick, brown envelope to me.

"Uhm," I said.  "I was going to ring you and tell you I wouldn't be able to take your case after all."

"What?" he said, looking crestfallen.  He was of average height, but with a slight slouch that made him appear to be permanently protecting his vulnerable midsection from attack.  I had always wondered if his father had used more than hateful words to get his point across, as he did occasionally with the hired staff.  It didn't help that the slightly panicked expression on his face was all too similar to the one he wore after a particularly vicious tirade from his father. 

The warning bells, quiescent before, were now merrily ringing away.  Potential clients did not usually stare at you like a cornered hare amidst a pack of hounds unless they were already in serious trouble.  A simple inquiry into the bona fides of a service one was _potentially_ considering utilising should not have produced the sort of reaction I was seeing.

But what did I give him for an excuse -- that my father-in-law wouldn't allow me to look into his case?  "I'm sorry, Chris.  I . . . just can't.  I'm sure another firm would be happy to take you on."

He shook his head violently, like a dog shaking off water.  "No, no one but you, Sid.  You'd understand.  I couldn't take what others might think."

_What?_  "Chris. . . ." I began.

"No, Sid.  I'll just leave this here, in case you change your mind."  He laid the envelope on the sitting room table.  "There's an advance in there, for your trouble.  Regardless."  Without even looking at me, he walked to the door -- a prosperous, good-looking man with obvious demons on his back.  He turned with his hand on the doorknob.  "Just think about it, Sid.  Please?" 

And then he was gone.

*********************

I _did_ think about it, but in the end, I left the envelope sealed.  I didn't want to know how much money he'd left me, for one thing.  To assuage my vague sense of guilt, I put the envelope in my safe and made a mental note to return the funds to him when things had settled down.  Hopefully, he would take my advice and seek assistance elsewhere.  It certainly seemed as if he needed it, whatever his _real_ problem was. 

I told myself firmly that I wasn't curious enough to find out.

Later that day, I dressed for the races -- white shirt, jacket, glasses, cane not entirely optional -- and pointed the nose of my new Mercedes south toward Brighton racecourse.  I still had a few outstanding jobs to take care of, and with Chico temporarily out of the picture, they wouldn't get accomplished on their own.  No rest for the weary . . . or the recently battered.

Charles had been mildly disturbed when I told him I had to return to London, but he always tended to be overprotective of me in his own noncommittal, impassive manner.  A raised eyebrow and pursed lips told me volumes regarding his approval of my plans, but he didn't attempt to dissuade me in any way.

I had the strangest impression that _this_ time; however, he truly wanted to.  And that perhaps I wanted him to as well, for no particular reason I could pinpoint.

Absentmindedly watching the runners in the fourth race stride around the parade ring, I propped both my cane and myself against a convenient fence.  I was waiting to talk to a jockey riding the hot favourite in the fifth race, and this was as good a place as any to take the weight off my wretched knee.  I was no longer entitled to lurk outside the weighing room, more's the pity.  And with my current occupation, my lurking tended to make even the non-villains uncomfortable at times.

"Sid Halley, as I live and breathe!  If this isn't the damndest coincidence!"

I turned to face the man addressing me, feeling instantly cheered.  I'd ridden for him in my very early days as a jockey, when I was still light enough to race on the flat.  Terrence Clyde Silsbury was a good friend of the Newmarket trainer who'd practically raised me after my mother had died, and he'd retired himself several years back. 

"Coincidence?" I asked, shaking his hand but still bracing my back nonchalantly against the fence.  "I know for a fact you don't miss a meeting, Terry, and I haven't been a _total_ stranger to Brighton."  In fact, I had fond memories of this course, since its undulating track required both concentration and a more-than-usual degree of technical skill from its jockeys. 

He eyed both me and the cane, his sharp eyes missing little, as usual.  "Well, I must say I would've been a mite affronted if you didn't talk to me personally about your new book, so I guess it's not much of a coincidence after all, seein' you here."

"My book?" I asked, genuinely confused.

"Why, yes," he said, smiling broadly.  "If anyone in racing deserves a biography, it would be you, Sid.  You were genuinely one of the best, and heaven knows I missed your skills when you had to move on."

A larger crowd was starting to gather in anticipation of the upcoming big race, so I picked up my cane and motioned to Terry to lead the way out of the parade ring.  Terry was a big man, both in height and breadth with the shoulders of a wrestler, and he carried his years exceedingly well.  I knew he would clear a path through the milling people, and I could therefore avoid the inevitable jostling of my once-more throbbing knee.  More importantly, I wished to speak to him with a few less inquisitive ears about.

He seemed to guess my difficulty -- and my true intent -- and walked much slower than his usual purposeful stride to a relatively quiet spot across from a temporarily abandoned betting shop.  Once we had evaded the worst of the teeming masses, he turned to face me again.  "I gather from your silence, lad, that this book is an _unauthorised_ biography." 

"You can say that, since this is the first I've heard of it."  I put both a smile on my face and a little more weight on the cane.  "Could you tell me exactly what this is about?"

"Sure thing, Sid.  This man came to my house -- Derek Parker, his name was.  I've never seen him at the races, nor about town.  Told me he was writing a biography on Sid Halley and wanted to know more about you.  Personal things, like, so the book would have a more 'intimate' feel -- so the public could get to know the _real_ Sid Halley, he said."

_Bloody hell_.  "What did you tell him?"  I tried to keep my voice neutral.

"Oh, harmless stuff.  How intense you were, how I _knew_ you could never be bought off, your talent for finding trouble, even back then.  Showed him some pictures of you and me in the winning circle, you riding the work string, a photo of you with that young skiver you spent so much time with, things like that."  He looked at me thoughtfully.  "I told him you were a lot more open back then -- that you used to talk more about yourself.  I told him that now, getting anything personal from Sid Halley was like pulling gold out of a coal mine, especially since you'd become an investigator."

He must have seen something on my face that I didn't want to show.  His eyes widened slightly.  "You truly don't know anything about this?"

I shook my head, smiling wanly.  "Nary a clue."

His agile mind added up the pieces.  "Oh, damn, Sid.  I'm frightfully sorry.  I was so sure he was what he said he was.  I never even thought to question his motives.  He seemed, well . . . trustworthy, like someone you'd want your daughter to marry, you know?"

It had been my experience that most villains didn't look like villains, which is why they were so often successful.  "I understand, Terry, truly I do.  Could you tell me what this man looked like?"

"He was tall, about my height, slightly stocky build, blond hair, blue eyes, I think."  He looked at me with a deeply distressed expression.  "I am so terribly sorry, Sid.  Is he. . . ?"

"I don't know yet, and it may be nothing at all."  I smiled up at him, wanting to reassure.  "Perhaps he really is an overambitious author wanting to make a few quid off a quasi-successful ex-jockey."

He looked about as convinced of that as I was.  "There was never anything 'quasi' about you, Sid," he said instead.  "Whatever you set out to do, you did.  Whenever you committed to something, you never let go."

Unless I was _forced_ to let go.  Or, heaven help me, that when I _was_ forced to let go, I didn't have anyone to help me through the loss, nor even admit that I _needed_ someone to help me.

Even now.

I pulled one of my cards from my pocket in a vain attempt to hide my discomfort.  "Could I ask you to telephone me if he comes around again, or if he tries to contact anyone else you know?"

He took the card and said, "Of course, Sid.  Of course." 

I ate some lunch, and didn't taste it.  I talked to the jockey after the fifth race, and I got my questions answered.  Wrote a report to my client and closed one more case.

But someone else was asking questions -- about me.  I tried to think of any cases I might currently be working on that would warrant a pre-emptive strike from a potential villain, but I couldn't come up with anything . . . or anyone.  Except for the notable exception of this last dust-up, I had been pursuing the less potentially bone-bruising jobs for quite some time. 

And why would they need to ask questions about my younger self?  Everyone in the racing world was at least passingly familiar with my personal life -- one paid a price for fame, as well as reaped its benefits. 

I knew I wouldn't get any further without additional information and resolved to wait it out.

As it turned out, I didn't have to wait very long.

*********************

I debated returning to Aynsford that night but decided on my flat instead.  As far as I knew, no one was actively attempting to remove me from the gene pool, so I thought it safe enough.  Besides, I simply wasn't up to the longer drive to Aynsford . . . or to be honest with myself, attempting to work out the puzzle of this new, intent Charles under the man's unswerving gaze.  He could read me far better than I could ever hope to read him. 

So that I wouldn't be forced to get up and answer my phone with my now horrifically swollen knee, I turned off the phone and muted the messages.

It was early the next morning, while I was lounging around with my knee on a pillow and doing my best to ignore a backlog of paperwork, that I remembered I had shut off the phone.  Hobbling to the answering machine, I checked the messages.  There were a slew of them . . . and all from my accountant.  The messages were fairly monotonous, since they all said, "Sid, call me, right now!"

I dutifully called him.

"Sid!  Damn it, where have you been?"

I sighed.  I've known my accountant, Noel Wayne, for many, many years.  He was not known for hysterics, to put it mildly, so I had the distinct impression that it wasn't good news.

It wasn't.

"What's with this new professional advisor you've hired?" he asked, sounding genuinely affronted.  "If you had any doubts about my ability to handle your tax affairs, you could have bloody well said something!"

_Damn._  "What professional advisor?" I asked, trying to slow my suddenly accelerated heart rate.

"The one who came marching into my office with a dutifully signed form 64-8 and a self-satisfied smirk on his face!"

I pressed my upper arm across my eyes, suddenly very tired.  "Noel, will you please calm down?  I haven't hired anyone, financial advisor or otherwise."

"You haven't?"  He sounded both relieved and surprised.  "But it was your signature on the 64-8.  I've seen it enough times to know."

This kept getting better and better.  "What did he want to know?"

"He said he needed access to all your financial records for an ongoing Inland Revenue check."

"Good God, Noel!  You didn't give it to him, did you?"

A very put-upon sigh came over the receiver.  "Give me some credit, will you, Sid?  Of course not.  Although I was quite certain I was going to get hell's all from you for withholding that information.  Are you _sure_ you haven't hired someone -- say some months ago -- and have simply forgotten?"

"He was that convincing?"

There was a thoughtful pause.  "Yes, he was.  Knew his stuff, tax laws, financial documents, jargon -- the works.  If I wasn't especially paranoid about the business you're in, I would have certainly given him what he wanted.  He just seemed -- I don't know -- the kind of person you'd trust with your life.  Never had any doubts he wasn't who he said he was."

I sighed.  "What name did he give you?"

"Wait a minute -- I wrote it down."

"Wrote it down?  Didn't he give you his card?"

Another pause.  "No, he just showed it to me -- said it was his last one and that he couldn't spare it."  A long indrawn breath.  "That alone should have told me something, huh?"

"It's all right, Noel.  I've got an inordinately suspicious mind.  And my guess is that he didn't touch anything in your office either?"

He thought about that a moment.  "On the money again, Sid.  Not a damn thing that I can recall.  The 64-8 was in an envelope.  He just slid the form out and kept the envelope.  God, Sid, I'm bloody sorry."

I laughed.  "Nothing to be sorry about -- you didn't give him what he wanted, after all." 

And just what _did_ he want?  As far as I was aware, the 64-8 wouldn't give him access to my funds -- just access to what they consisted of.  Things still weren't adding up. 

"Here's the name -- Daniel Payne.  Does that help you any?"

Daniel Payne and Derek Parker.  "Somewhat.  Was he say 6'0", stocky build, blond hair and blue eyes?"

"Noooo.  Not exactly.  The height and build are right, but he had brown hair and a mustache.  Couldn't quite tell what colour his eyes were, but they certainly weren't blue."

"Well, if he comes back. . . ."

"I know, I know.  Stall him, ring the bobbies, and then ring you."

"You're a bright man, Noel."

"Sometimes, Sid, only sometimes." 

He was a good friend as well as a first-rate accountant, and it would take him awhile to get over his feeling of having been duped.  As far as I was concerned, however, he was worth his weight in gold. 

But I had the distinct feeling that Mr Daniel Payne wouldn't be returning to the site of his almost crime.

*********************

Since I _did_ have a naturally suspicious mind, I then called my not-friend and sometime font of information, Kevin Mills of _The Pump_. 

"Sid!" he said, busily munching away on whatever comprised today's lunch, the sound of tapping keys in the background almost as loud as the sound of his enthusiastic chewing.  "You need to take out a bloody advert in our rag if this keeps up.  We're not your bleeding advertisement agency, you know!"

Since I hadn't yet told him what I wanted, I asked the next question with some degree of trepidation.  "If _what_ keeps up?"

"We've had a recent spate of calls from chaps asking about you -- and not just the racing section, mind you!  What're you doing -- giving _The Pump_ as a damned reference?"

Not bloody likely.  While Kevin had done me the occasional favour -- in return for appropriate payment, of course -- he was just as likely to sell you out to the highest bidder if the opportunity arose.  Kevin Mills looked after Kevin Mills -- first, foremost and only. 

"Chaps or . . . chap?" I asked him.

The sounds of munching stalled briefly as he thought it over.  "Well, now, I don't rightly know."  Another pause.  "You working on something I should know about?"  Kevin was like a bloodhound -- no, more like a shark.  You could always count on him to scent the blood in the water before anyone else.

"Not that I know of, Kevin."  A slight, disbelieving snort from the receiver.  "But could you do me a favour and ask around to see if the calls might have been the same person?"

"Well, I _guess_ I could do that."  The sounds of chewing returned.  "But, it's gonna. . . ."

"Cost me, I know.  Can we work out the details -- and the poison of your choice -- at another time?"

He laughed around another mouthful.  "Sure thing, Sid, sure thing."

The next phone call -- with an almost equal degree of trepidation -- was made to my father-in-law at Aynsford. 

"Sid!" he said.  "Where have you been?"

I sighed.  The question of the week, it seemed.  "At the flat," I replied. 

I never referred to this flat as 'home', regardless of its degree of restrained comfort and the amount of money I had invested into it.  'Home' had been, for quite some time, the residence of my father-in-law.  If not for the continued acrimony between myself and Charles' daughter, I had the distinct impression that he would've offered his residence as my _permanent_ home.

"You didn't answer your phone last night, and it's been busy all morning," Charles said with slight undertones of disapproval and nothing in his voice to indicate his concern, but the worry was there, if one knew where to look for it.

I had plenty of practice in that regard.

"You didn't leave a message," I said, "and I'm being a good boy, keeping my leg up, and doing as much work as possible by telephone."

"Hmmph," he said.  "Works better if you turn the bloody thing _on_."

I smiled.  Never one for overstating the obvious, was my father-in-law.

I paused a moment, trying to work out a way to ask my question without alerting his highly suspicious mind, but he beat me to the mark.

"Sid, I thought you should know.  Jenny's flat has been broken into."

Oh, wonderful.  Just what I needed -- another close encounter with my sharp-tongued ex-wife.  We had come to some degree of understanding after I had kept her out of prison for theft a few months ago, but she still felt the need to sharpen her claws on me when she was feeling particularly depressed.  "What was stolen?" I asked resignedly.

"Nothing important, as far as the housekeeper can tell, and it's likely to have happened several days ago in any case."

"The housekeeper?  Jenny's not there?"

Charles must have heard the relief in my voice, as he chuckled slightly.  "No, she is still in France with her latest affair, so you are -- for the time-being -- quite safe."

I only wish that were true, but I didn't feel exactly safe right now -- with or without the ruin I had made of my marriage.

"You said 'nothing important', so what exactly _was_ stolen?"

He considered for a moment.  "I can't say that I know, but I shall enquire, if you think it important." 

"Yes, please."  I didn't respond to his tacit request for _why_ I might think it important.

Mainly because I didn't know myself.

"Uhm, Charles," I began, still not sure how to phrase the next bit.

"Yes?"

"Have you . . . has anyone asked questions about me, possibly about my time as a jockey?"

"No," he replied at once.  Then, "Are you in some sort of trouble, Sid?" 

I paused.  Charles was never usually so blunt, and I could hear the stress in his voice, calmly spoken words or not.

"No," I lied.  "I guess I'm a little concerned about the break-in of Jenny's flat, so soon after her last dust-up."

Charles said, "I will certainly let you know if I receive any untoward enquiries, but I suppose I should inform you that you are an absolutely horrid liar."  He didn't wait for my reply, but said merely, "Come home, Sid."

"I . . . can't.  Not right now.  I still have some cases to wrap up."

"One day your stubbornness will result in your impressive string of luck running out, and it will be yourself that is wrapped up -- inside a body bag."

I was stunned.  The vehemence again, but magnified twofold.  "Charles. . . ."

"I will ring you with the information you requested."  Voice and manner completely back to normal -- it was uncanny how he could go from frightening to baseline in a matter of seconds.  "Goodbye, Sid."  He hung up.

Charles was my safe harbour in times of trouble, who never wavered, even against the strongest of storms.  His daughter being threatened with disgrace and imprisonment hadn't even shaken his solid core.  What would I do, I thought, if I lost the invariable presence who was often the only thing keeping me sane?

I stood staring at the telephone in my hands for several minutes before I could stop shaking enough to put it down.

*********************

Since I actually did have some inquiries to finish, I spent most of the remainder of the day interviewing trainers in Yorkshire about an up-and-coming young jockey, whom a big-name trainer was considering hiring as his yard's principal jockey.  This was something I couldn't do by telephone, since I often found more truth from an individual's eyes than their words.  Satisfied that the young man seemed trustworthy enough, at least from his current employers' perspectives, I phoned my client and wrapped up yet another inquiry. 

Safe, routine, no thugs required to keep me in line.

No reason at all to require the thorough, multifaceted stalking of an ex-jockey turned investigator.

I heard my phone ringing through the door as I once again attempted to get my recalcitrant lock to open.  Making a mental note to have a locksmith check the mechanism, I hobbled into the flat and picked up the receiver just before it went to the machine.

"Hello," I said, a little out of breath.

"Mr Halley?  Mr John Sidney Halley?" the officious voice, with echoes of Eton, enquired.

"Yes, this is Sid Halley."

"Ah, excellent.  This is Richard Plympton, the account manager of the Park Lane branch of Barclays, regarding a most urgent matter."

Barclays was the bank where I held my account.  I should have expected this, damn it all.  "Yes?" I asked.

"Well, this is most awkward, Mr Halley, but we fear that someone may have been tampering with your safety deposit box."

"Tampering?"

He cleared his throat.  "Er, yes, well, we can't be certain if it has actually been broken into, of course, without your key, so we thought it best to contact you and have you check its contents straight away."

"Have you called the police?"

"Just before I rung you.  They should arrive shortly, but as you know, we cannot open your box with the bank's master key alone."

Checking the time, I realized I _would_ have to leave straight away to arrive before they closed for the day, and my wretched knee was already complaining.

I told him I would come, locked the flat, and considered calling a taxi, but regretfully came to the conclusion that it would take too much time and climbed stiffly back into the Mercedes. 

As luck would have it, a lorry pulled out of a parking spot directly across from the bank, so at least I wouldn't have to walk a great distance. The police had evidently not yet arrived.  As I waited to cross the busy street leaning heavily on my cane, I regretted having turned down the suggested crutches, but I knew they would have been too awkward for me to handle with my myoelectric left hand. 

When I asked for Mr Richard Plympton upon entering the bank, I was greeted by the young woman in customer service with a blank stare and a tentative, "I'm sorry, sir, but could you repeat the name?"

I did.

She said, "I'm sorry, but we don't have an employee by that name -- are you sure you have the correct branch?"

I told her I was quite sure, and then asked to speak to the manager.

The manager, Allan Easterman, was a man I had met only once, upon opening my account.  Not a great deal taller than I was, with a significant paunch and an unruly mop of dark hair, he didn't exactly meet the image of a successful bank manager, but he was nonetheless both efficient and prompt.  He was also an avid racing fan, and therefore knew me by sight.

"Mr Halley!  It's quite a pleasure to see you again.  Ms Adams said you wished to speak to me?"

"Er, yes," I said.  "If I could have a word in private?"

"Certainly, certainly," he said, leading me to his cubical.

He pointed me in the direction of an overstuffed chair that I was a little wary of sitting in lest I not be able to get back up, but I decided to take the risk nonetheless.

"Now, Mr Halley," he said, after wedging himself behind his desk.  "What can I do for you?"

I told him about the call from Richard Plympton, whose name he was also not familiar with, and enquired if anything unusual had occurred at the bank within the past few days.

To his credit, he did give it a good deal of thought.  "No," he said.  "Nothing out of the ordinary at all, I must say.  Very quiet, which is the way we prefer it, of course."

"You've had no new staff, transitory or otherwise?"

He shook his head.  "No, none at all.  We try to treat our employees well and have very little turnover, I'm proud to say."

I was tempted to treat the call as a prank, since it didn't seem to match the modus operandi of my stalker's previous efforts, but I asked to view my safety deposit box nonetheless.

"Of course, of course," he said.  "Just let me get the master key."

I waved him on ahead, primarily so he wouldn't have to see me lever myself painfully and ponderously out of the suffocating chair, and I met him at the door to the vault. 

The lock, as far as I could see, was fine, and it opened smoothly upon the application of my key in concordance with the master key applied by Mr Easterman.  I took the box to the viewing booth and conscientiously went through the contents, but all seemed present and undisturbed. 

I hobbled painfully back to the vault, with the box held awkwardly in my artificial hand, and relocked the box.

Thanking the manager for his time, I left the bank and stood blinking on its steps in the bright August sunshine while I allowed my eyes to adjust to the glare.  Walking to the kerb, I waited for a break in the traffic and then began to cross the street, chastising myself silently for never doubting the Eton-accented voice.  I should have simply rung the bank back for confirmation, so it was own damn fault for the wasted trip.  In my own defence, however, the man had sounded so utterly _authentic_.

It was as much that particular thought as the sound of a powerful engine that froze me in place momentarily.  I turned awkwardly, and watched the approach of a dark Daimler that was barrelling my way, tyres squealing.  Too close, I thought, it was much too close.  Even without my bad knee. . . .

I tried, regardless, since it wasn't in my nature to give up without a fight.

Twisting to one side, I never saw the man who slammed into my back and knocked me out of the path of the oncoming car.  The force of his charge sent us rolling across the tarmac, and my saviour ended up sprawled atop me a mere foot from the wheels of the speeding car. 

I was momentarily stunned, but the man atop me had turned his head and was watching the retreating Daimler muttering, "Blimey!  Blimey!" under his breath, his body seeming to shake nearly as much as mine.

He looked down at me, eyes wide.  "Eh, mate?  That was a mite close.  You all right?" 

"Uhm," I said, trying to catch my breath.  The man must have weighed close to 14 stone, and I was feeling quite thoroughly squashed. 

_Squashed_, I thought, suddenly lightheaded.  That had very nearly been the inglorious end of Sid Halley, squashed beneath the tyres of a rolling trap I had so stupidly fallen into. 

He leaned closer to me, the faint smell of alcohol reaching my nostrils.  "You didn't, like, hit your head then, mate?"  He still looked panicked.  "You don't need an ambulance, do you?" From the expression on his face, _he_ was in more imminent need of an ambulance than I, appearing only two breaths away from a heart attack.

I made an aborted motion to free one arm.  "Er, if you could just. . . ."  I jerked my chin upward.

His eyes widened again.  "Oh, right!  Sorry, mate, sorry."  He struggled awkwardly to his feet, managing to bruise a few non-vital bits of my anatomy along the way, but with his significant weight off me, I found nothing had been seriously injured.  Cuts, bumps and bruises. 

Just another day.

He ended up standing on my left side, toward the street, and reached across to help me rise with a hand wrapped around my right forearm.  "You all right then, mate?"

"Yes," I said, "thanks to you."

He ducked his head.  "Nothing, really.  Didn't take time to think about it.  Played a bit of rugby when I was a lad -- never knew it would come in so handy, like." 

God bless the British sense of civic responsibility.

He didn't offer me his name, but the wringing hands and darting glances led me to believe he didn't want any official attention, so I didn't press him, nor offer mine.

The crowd that had gathered slowly dispersed, seeing no one with great, gaping holes or broken bones to ogle.

I wiped a hand across my forehead, came back with a small amount of blood.  "You didn't, by chance, get the number plate?" I asked.

His eyes screwed up as he thought about it.  "Just the last few," he said apologetically.  He gave me what he remembered, tentatively, and looked longingly down the street again. 

The slight breeze blew the faint scent of perfume my way, and I felt my eyebrows rise.  It was Mille -- a scent I recognised, since I had once purchased a bottle in France for my ex-wife, what seemed like many lifetimes ago.

"Would you stay and speak to the police?" I asked, already knowing the answer.

His dark eyes flew back to mine, widening again.  "Nah, the missus would kill me if she knew I was here.  Supposed to be at work, I am.  She'd kill me," he repeated, sounding almost desperate.

No doubt, considering that the undone shirt collar, unbuttoned sleeves and perfume were all hallmarks of a man who just spent the afternoon with a bird who didn't happen to be his homicidal missus.

I sighed, shook his hand, and thanked him once again before he scurried off.

The police, evidently called by yet another civic-minded citizen, finally arrived.  The Daimler (the number plate matching what I had given them), had been found abandoned only a few blocks away.  "It had been stolen," the police said, "and would you know who might be trying to kill you, Mr Halley?" 

Mr Halley didn't have a clue, and told them so.  I certainly didn't tell them about any possible connection between Daniel Payne, Derek Parker, and Richard . . . or Dick . . . Plympton.

As a precaution, I checked into a hotel that night while I tried to think things through and finally decided that perhaps it was time I gave up detecting.  I had never felt so off the pace, even while riding a green, tangle-footed no-hoper in a maiden race. 

Normally when a villain was trying to kill me, I knew either who was doing the attacking or at least the _reason_ for the attack.  This time, I knew neither.

I didn't much enjoy being stalked, but the stakes seemed to have been raised significantly, and I still hadn't a clue where to begin looking.

*********************

I had yet to acquire the convenience of a mobile phone, so I went to a phone box to retrieve the messages from my flat.  The first was from Kevin Mills, brusque and to the point as usual.

"Sid, damn you, why don't you ever answer your phone?  Got the info you wanted, but this is seriously gonna cost you.  The staff here are the most tight-fisted, money-grubbing lot you'll ever see.  It cost me half my lunch, a bottle of Scotch, and two tickets to the theatre to get your answer, so I hope you choke on it.  Turns out, it _was_ the same bloke asking about you -- a posh git, from all accounts, with an upper crust accent and the attitude to go with it.

"And I see you've lied to me again, damn your sorry hide.  Caught a story on the telly about you nearly festooning the wing of a Daimler.  You're a bloody sponger, Sid!"

The line went dead, and I sighed.

The next call was from Charles.  "Sid, call me."  Absolutely no inflection whatsoever, and I didn't know whether that was a good sign or a bad one.

He did, however, pick up on the first ring, so he must have been hovering by the phone.

"Hullo, Charles."

"Sid?  For heaven's sake -- are you all right?"  He had evidently seen the same programme on the telly as Kevin Mills.

"Yes, I'm fine.  Mostly a case of battered pride."

Charles knew better than that, but evidently decided to say nothing about it.  "I talked to Jenny's housekeeper.  She said she almost didn't realise anyone had broken in at all.  The door was still locked, and although she had some difficulty getting her key to work that day, she didn't notice anything amiss until she started to dust."

My heart skipped a bit.  "What was wrong with the lock?"

My voice must have _sounded_ normal, because Charles didn't pause.  "The police told me that occasionally when a lock is 'jimmied,' it tends not to work properly afterwards.  The inspector thought it was more likely the burglar wanted someone to _know_ the lock had been tampered with, since it had been a thoroughly professional job otherwise -- no sign at all that anyone had been there except for the missing item."

"And that was?"

I could almost see Charles shaking his head.  "That was the oddest thing.  As far as Mrs Cromwell can tell, the only thing stolen was a picture of me and Jenny at Aynsford.  And she only knew that because of the unequal spacing of photos on the mantle.  They took none of Jenny's silver or jewellery."

And some of the jewellery had been quite expensive.  I knew, since I had bought most of it for her.  Odd, indeed.  If not for the coincidence of the suddenly dicey lock, I would think it totally inconsequential.

"Sid?  Are you still there?"

"Uhm, yes," I said. 

"Are you going to tell me what is going on?"

"Charles, honestly, if I knew, I would tell you.  Things are just . . . strange."

"Strange?  How?"  The abruptness was back in his voice, along with something else.  The Admiral's voice, would be my guess, accustomed to instant obedience. 

I hedged.  "Look, Charles.  I have to go back to my flat and check on something.  I'll call you later, all right?"

By the sound of the disapproving silence, it was most certainly _not_ all right, but he finally agreed.

When I arrived at my Pont Square flat, my doorway was once again framed with the form of Christopher Hunter, looking -- if possible -- even more agitated.

"Sid, I need to speak to you."

As if I had a choice.  I once again wriggled the key into the lock until I could coax it to open, and ushered Chris into the sitting room.  If I eyed the flat with some degree of wariness when I myself followed him inside, Chris didn't appear to notice.

"Look, Sid. . . ."  He broke off, seemingly unsure of what to say.

"Chris.  I haven't changed my mind, if that's what you've come to ask.  I'd be more than happy to give you the advance back, seeing as it hasn't been earned."

He shook his head.  He was wide-eyed and sweating, even in the coolness of my refrigerated flat.  "I . . . I have a bit of a confession to make."

"Chris, I've already. . . ."

"No, Sid!  You must listen."  Another darting look around, as if he were expecting someone to jump at him from behind the furniture.  "I told him," he broke out in a rush, "I've already told him!"

"Told him what?"  _And **whom**, for that matter?_

He looked at me if I were a silly punter for not knowing what he meant.  "Gordon.  Gordon, of course!  I told him I had already hired you."

I felt my skin go suddenly clammy.  "Gordon Pearson."

"Yes, yes, of course!"

"When, exactly," I said, trying to keep my voice level, "did you mention you had hired me?"

He tried to evade my eyes then, the guilt now in full bloom.  "Well, at the beginning, when I first contacted you by telephone."

_Oh, dear God._  Charles, I thought, was going to murder me.

I sat down heavily in the nearest chair and motioned for him to take a seat, but he was far too agitated to do anything but pace.

"I'm sorry, Sid, truly I am."  His words were coming fast now that he'd decided to come clean.  "I thought if I mentioned your name -- everyone knows who you are, you know -- that he would leave me alone."  He glanced at me nervously.  "I've heard . . .  I've heard the villains know you'll get them in the end, and I. . . I was sure he would leave me alone."

No, you didn't, you silly sod. You thought he would go after _me_ instead.  Well, congratulations on a job well done.

Aloud, I said only, "Perhaps you should start from the beginning, Chris."

He must have heard the frost in my voice, because he was suddenly wary.  "I _swear_, Sid, that I didn't know he would take, well, an _interest_ in you.  I swear I didn't, or I wouldn't have mentioned your name!"

His naivete was beginning to irk me.  "You gave him my name to get your own damn-fool self off the hook, so why _wouldn't_ he take an interest in me?"

"No, no, you still don't understand."  He looked around again, as if making certain we were alone.  "He said . . . he said this morning, just this morning, that he . . . that he'd found someone new, that he wouldn't need to see me any more.  He _thanked_ me, for God's sake, for the _reference_!"

"Tell me," I said, feeling suddenly ashen, "what the hell you are talking about."

He finally did, in broken sentences and with anxious glances, and when he had finished, he seemed almost as distressed about my continued silence as his own situation.

I waved him off when I figured the confessional had run dry, and he walked jerkily toward the door.  The guilty conscience must have hit him full force, because he stopped and walked back to where I was sitting. 

"I think," he said.  "I'd best give you this."  He handed me a small envelope.  "I would rather, of course, that you not have to use it.  It will most likely ruin me -- my marriage, at least."  He gulped and looked away briefly.  "But use it if you need . . . if you think it'll do any good, that is."

After he had left, I wondered how the bloody hell I was going to handle this. 

I went to the safe, retrieved his original envelope and examined its contents.  Straightforward stuff -- adverts for the escort agency from glossy magazines, testimonials, an information pamphlet complete with VAT registration number, and the such.  Not of much use unless Chris had truly intended me to only investigate bona fides.  Quite a bit of cash.  Guilt money, I now knew.

The smaller envelope, however, was another thing altogether.  It was a list of dates and times, with copies of cheques written to one Gordon Pearson, along with a signed statement describing in rather sensational detail his assignations with the same Gordon Pearson.  This envelope did have potential, if I could figure how to use it without compromising Chris.  Or potentially myself. 

Chris had more courage than I, it seemed.  He'd confronted his own demons, and as frightened as he was, he'd still come through in the end.  I relocked both envelopes in the safe.

_Charles_, I thought, suddenly aghast.  Charles couldn't have -- he must have known someone who'd gone through what Chris had, but I dreaded enquiring.  Dreaded it all the same.  Charles normally detested excess emotion of any kind, and at the moment, I could feel nothing but.

I eyed the phone for several minutes before I could work up the nerve to ring him. 

"Charles," I said, after he had answered, and he must have heard something in my voice.

"Sid, tell me."  The Admiral's voice again, a voice that he never raised, but a voice that would undoubtedly carry through the stiffest gale that the North Atlantic could produce.

"I think . . . I think it best not to discuss this over the phone."

"The inquiry we discussed at Aynsford?" 

"Yes," I said.

"Very well, I can expect you shortly then?"

"Yes," I said again, seemingly not capable of anything more complicated.

"Sid, before you ring off.  I would advise you to be careful, very careful.  This man . . . he enjoys the . . . hunt.  You've probably already spoken to him, possibly even met him face to face.  He used to be -- he was once a quite credible actor, 'a master at disguise', as the pundits say, and will be difficult to spot even if you know him quite well."

Well, that was a cheery thought.  I encountered dozens of people in my normal day, many of them strangers.

"And, Sid.  Jenny's housekeeper has just rung back.  She said there _was_ something else stolen, but she hadn't noticed before, since she'd been instructed by Jenny never to dust her dressing table.  The police had asked her to check again for anything missing or out of place." 

"Yes?"

"It was a bottle of perfume, some sort of French make."  Charles cared as little about perfume as he cared about popular music.

"Mille?" I asked, dreading his reply.

"I believe that was the name she mentioned, yes.  How did you know?"

My heart rose in my throat.  "I'll, uhm, tell you when I get to Aynsford," and rang off abruptly.

I knew because I'd smelled it recently.  Very recently.  Because I'd been a totally blind, blithering _idiot_.  I hadn't been merely off the pace, I'd been pulled up and out of the race completely.

_Possibly even met him face to face_ \-- dear _God_. 

Damn it.  I should have known.  He'd reached _across_ my body to help me to my feet.  Because he'd known who I was . . . known about the artificial left hand.

It was a sign of my severe distraction that I had already reached my car before I realized I'd left my cane behind.  I decided against going back to the flat to retrieve it, since Charles kept a spare for me at his home.  This hadn't been the first time I'd been injured since I'd known him.  Besides, I was in a hurry to get to Aynsford -- to sanctuary.

The scent of violets made Mille a truly unmistakable fragrance. 

And I smelled it again, here in my own Mercedes, just before my world went completely black.

*********************

I awoke, muzzily, to the unwelcome realisation that I was once again on the wrong side of a set of ropes . . . and liking it even less than I usually did.

There _were_ differences, however.  For one thing, there was only one villain present, without the usual coterie of hired thugs to complicate matters.

And I was, for another, totally starkers.

I wasn't particularly shocked over my state of undress considering what I now knew about Mr Gordon Pearson, but that didn't make me any less uncomfortable.

Funny how the mind tends to skirt around unpleasant knowledge.  Substituting 'uncomfortable' for 'scared witless,' for example.

"Ah, I see you have come around at last, John Sidney."

'Posh git', Kevin Mills had said.  I wondered if the upper crust accent was his native one, or whether this was another guise of the 'credible actor', as Charles had described him.  I hadn't had time to investigate his background, but I doubted it would matter much in the long run.  I very much did not want to be here.

I was suspended from the ceiling by my right hand, with my left arm strapped across my body at the upper arm, and both legs chained widespread to the floor.  All the comforts of home, I thought miserably, as I had no doubt from the accommodations that this was Mr Pearson's regular playground.  He was, by Chris' account, quite the professional.  The room was large -- what I could see of it with my limited field of vision -- and it had the slightly damp feel of a basement or wine cellar.

"You are a fascinating man, John Sidney, full of contradictions," he said, from directly behind me.  "I've uncovered the most interesting facts about you.  Quite the find, you are."

I resisted the impulse to turn my head.  "What do you want?" I asked, putting on my most feeble mien.  For some reason, it wasn't especially difficult this time.

He laughed and clapped his hand down on my shoulder, then moved it slowly down the centre of my back.  "I thought you were quite aware of the reason, John Sidney."

I tried not to flinch from his touch, but he stopped just before reaching my buttocks. 

It was not common knowledge, but I had, like many young lads, experimented with members of my own sex before I'd felt brave enough to approach the opposite one.  I'd been lonely, displaced, and had taken what comfort I could without a great deal of guilt upon departing -- from either party. The 'young skiver' in the photo that Terry Silsbury had mentioned had been one such fling.

As such, I was no stranger to a man's touch, but I hadn't gone much further than that.  It had been a phase, I'd thought, since I'd developed no long-lasting attachments during that time.  By the time I'd left my apprenticeship, I'd already moved on to the far greater challenge of deciphering women.

I reflected, in a sarcastic non-sequitur, that I hadn't been very successful in relationships with _them_ either.  So what did that say about me?

"You do look a tad the worse for wear," he said, nudging my swollen knee.

His hand moved down the swell of my buttocks and stayed there.

"Hmm," he said, when I still didn't speak or move. "You really don't have any nerves, do you?"  He moved around to face me.  "For someone who'd very nearly been flattened by a car, you appeared quite preternaturally calm yesterday."  He smiled.  "And I was close enough to tell." 

No down-on-his luck workman's clothes today.  He was wearing an expensive Oxford shirt, open at the collar, and a tweed jacket.  He certainly looked the part of a proper English gentleman on a country holiday.  Too bad I knew better.

"You took a bit of a chance yourself, didn't you?" I said, letting my eyes meet his.  They were blue, today at least.  "You were very nearly 'flattened' yourself."

He laughed and gripped my chin.  "Well, as they say, it is frightfully hard to get good help these days.  Besides, life would be dreadfully boring without a little danger now and again, wouldn't  it, John Sidney?"  He bent down and kissed me full on the lips.

When he'd finished, I jerked my chin from his grasp.  "I don't mind the danger," I said.  "It's the company."

"Ah, a spark of spirit at last.  I knew it had to be there, of course.  It's a frightful waste of time to dally with someone who has no backbone."

He reached for my left arm and removed my artificial hand with none of the tentative movements that most people employed, hampered only by the inconvenient strap still binding my upper arm to my torso.

I wondered, sickly, if that was because he'd had time to experiment with it while I was unconscious. 

He put the prosthesis down rather gently onto the floor.  Again, he didn't examine it first, like most people tended to do.  He handled it instead like he was very familiar with its construction -- and its capabilities. 

As if to prove that last thought beyond any doubt, he procured a large sledgehammer from somewhere behind me and proceeded, with one blow, to destroy the upper portion of the artificial arm that contained the electrodes -- the electrodes which allowed me the limited functions of grasping and turning. 

It wasn't merely two thousand quid worth of electronics he was destroying -- it was my independence, and to a great extent, my own feeling of self-worth.  I never felt entirely whole without it anymore. 

And to think, at one point, that I'd positively loathed the device.

He moved both the sledgehammer and the remains of my artificial arm to the far corner of the room, then returned to me.  Still without saying a word, he gripped the remaining four inches of my forearm and bent the elbow out.  He seemed fascinated by the smooth skin over the remnants of my forearm and spent some time exploring its textures with his fingertips.

The skin over the stump was particularly sensitive.  The nerves, I assumed, were making up for the missing bits of forearm and hand.  I found I loathed his touch there far more than on my mouth and shuddered.

He smiled, eyeing my face closely.  "I had a long talk with a man you recently sent to prison.  He's an old friend actually -- Trevor Shummock -- I believe you know the name?"

Yes, I did.  Now calling himself Trevor Deansgate, he had threatened me once with something I'd thought I couldn't bear.

"I see you do remember."

I tried to keep my expression as blank as possible, but I didn't like the direction this one-sided conversation was going.  Not at all. 

"He told me he was able to stop you -- for a short time, at least -- with a certain threat."

Trevor Deansgate had threatened to blow off my remaining hand with a shotgun if I didn't stop investigating him.  I'd given him my word . . . and thought I'd lost any hope of ever regaining my courage and self-respect.  In the long run, I'd broken that assurance -- and broken him in the bargain -- but I still couldn't think about shotguns and healthy hands without a great deal of trepidation. 

Pearson walked behind me again and stood close enough that I could feel his breath stirring my hair.  "He said you didn't even bat an eye when he came to carry out that threat -- that it obviously hadn't worked."  He placed his hand on the biceps of my right arm and brushed very lightly up my arm to my shackled hand.  "And I wondered, perhaps, if you simply hadn't had time to process what life would be like without either hand."

Like hell, I hadn't.  I'd had six miserable days of wondering -- of doing simple, day-to-day tasks and knowing I'd never be able to do them again without at least one normal hand.  I had nightmares of it, both waking and sleeping.

I still did.

He intertwined the fingers of his one hand with mine and used the other to pull me back against his body.  Caressing my stomach, he said, "But what if you didn't have the use of either arm, for days or even weeks at a stretch?  What if you had to have someone feed you, bathe you, take care of all your bodily needs?  What if you had to rely on someone else entirely?"  He kissed me on the neck and then bit down sharply.  "Would the threat have worked after that, I wonder?"

_Good God_.  I felt my whole body flush with heat and shuddered again.  I didn't _know_ \-- I didn't know the answer.  To be that utterly helpless -- that _vulnerable_.  I realised then I didn't want to know the answer.  Didn't think I would survive knowing.

Disentangling his fingers from mine, he caressed my forearm with a light touch, sensitising the nerve endings there.  "You don't like that idea, do you?  I can feel your heart beating so fast -- like a bird's."  He chuckled and bit me again on the neck, marking me.  "I have a lot of experience with . . . restraints," he said.  "Of course, if we bind your arm and hand for too long, they could become permanently damaged, but I'm sure you're aware of that fact."

I was all too painfully aware of it, but I didn't say anything -- held on to the last vestiges of my tattered pride amidst my terror and kept silent.

"Nothing to say, John Sidney?  I'll take it you have no objections then."

He moved around to face me and kissed me again, letting his hands wander to my buttocks.  After an interminable time, he finally stepped back.  "I thought we'd go somewhere more comfortable, but I'd heard from reliable sources how dangerous you can be when provoked."  He looked down at me from his much greater height.  "I don't think you'd get very far with that damaged knee, but it would be silly of me not to take basic precautions, don't you think?"

Bending down, he used a key to unlock the shackles on both my legs, wrapping one arm around the backs of my knees so I'd have no leverage to kick.  He kept his body close to mine as he rose, undoubtedly for the same reason, but I felt more of an urge to back away than attack him.  He still smelled slightly of Mille, and I knew I'd never be able to bear the scent of that particular perfume again. 

It was just as well that Jenny would no longer have anything to do with me.

Still keeping close, he removed the strap binding my left upper arm.  He no doubt intended to move behind me to unlock my right wrist, but I didn't give him the chance.  As soon as he released the strap binding my left arm, I hooked my good leg around his, tripping him up, and used my other leg and his own momentum to spin him around. 

God bless Chico's judo lessons. 

Grabbing his throat with my left upper arm, I latched both legs around his waist, holding him immobile with his arms trapped against his sides.  Luckily, the anchor still holding the rope on my right wrist was well secured, or I wouldn't have had the leverage to accomplish what I wanted.

While the word had obviously gotten around about my artificial arm, most villains still assumed that with the mechanism removed, I might as well have no arm at all.  The upper arm muscles on the left might not be as strong as those on the right, but the substantial weight of the artificial hand itself kept the muscles in my upper arm in reasonable shape, just from a day's normal activity.

Villains, fortunately for me, also tended to underestimate my strength because of my small size, but pound for pound, a jockey is the best overall athlete in the world.  It had not been _that_ long since I had guided 1500 pounds of horse at 35 miles an hour.

He began to struggle in earnest, and fearful that he might break the grip of my wounded leg, I pulled back harder against his throat, completely cutting off his supply of oxygen.

Now came the difficult part.

I relaxed my hold slightly before he could completely black out.  Having him -- and more importantly, the _key_ \-- on the floor out of my limited reach would get me no further along in the escape attempt.

Waiting until he was marginally aware of his surroundings again, I told him, "We can go about this two ways.  We can both end up dead -- you from a broken neck and me from possible starvation if no one finds me -- or I can release one of your hands, and you can reach up very slowly to unlock the cuff on my right wrist."  I tightened my grip again for a few seconds as a warning.  "I trust you know I wouldn't hesitate to do it."

He actually chuckled, although it came out as more of a croak.  "You do so hate to lose, John Sidney.  But then, you never _gain_ anything from the winning, do you?  And now you'll never know the answer to that question."

There were some things it was best not to know.  It certainly wasn't worth losing what remained of my self-respect to learn.

"Your answer, please?"  My right knee was by now horribly protesting the abuse, and I didn't want him to guess how close I was to losing my grip.  "If you've spent so much time researching me, you know I've studied martial arts."  Hopefully, he wasn't familiar enough with judo to know it was primarily a defensive form, rather than offensive. 

When he didn't reply, I snapped his head back sharply to prompt him. 

"You win," he said simply, but with a half-smile still on his face.  "I'll release you."

"Move very slowly, or I'll do what I said."

"Of course."

I gratefully unlocked my right leg, freeing his right hand.  Luckily, the key was attached to his right wrist with a long lanyard, so he hadn't dropped it during our brief struggle.  It took some time, because he had to unlock me with one hand and without being able to see the mechanism, but the lock finally gave way with a faint click.  I slipped my wrist free, dropped my other leg to the floor and again pushed him off balance until I could get the cuff locked around his own right wrist.

Pulling the key free from his wrist with a vicious jerk, I stepped back out of potential harm's way.

It was fortunate, I thought, that I had gotten so efficient at doing complicated tasks one-handed.  I closed my eyes briefly as a wave of weakness washed over me.  _One hand.  One whole, **healthy** hand._

He smiled benignly at me, shaking his head.  "And I had been told, quite often I might add, _never_ to underestimate you."

I didn't answer, but made a wide berth around him to pick up my artificial hand.  The damage was as bad as I'd feared, and the sleeve that fit over my elbow to keep the arm in place was also hopelessly damaged.  I set it on the table for later retrieval.  Perhaps the limb man could have a go at repairing it.

There was another chuckle from behind me.  "Most people would have set about getting dressed first."

Again, I didn't answer him.  I felt far more naked without my mechanical arm than I ever had without clothing.  The missing hand was a deeply personal thing for me, which he quite obviously knew.

"So what now, John Sidney?"

"I call the police . . . and then find my clothes," I said with some irony.

"Are you absolutely certain you want to involve the police?"

I ignored him for the time-being, because I had no way of knowing if he had been alone in the house and didn't wish to be surprised by hired thugs.  I knew he had at least one accomplice -- the driver of the speeding Daimler -- and I had absolutely no desire to be back in the hands of Gordon Pearson.

Searching for a telephone, I found instead my own clothes, hung quite neatly in a wardrobe against the far wall.  I dressed as quickly as I could with one hand, and then tried both doors in the room.

The first led to a comfortably appointed bedchamber, but with chains attached to convenient locations around the room.  I closed this door quickly with a barely suppressed shudder. 

The other door opened onto a wooden staircase, and after I had moved as silently as I could up the stairs, I heard the slamming of a door, followed by a voice calling, "Sid?"

_What the hell?_  "Charles!" I called.  "Over here."

I expected him to have brought reinforcements in the guise of the police, but he had, it seemed, come alone.

"I should have known you wouldn't need to be rescued," he said, shaking his head.

"How did you know where I was?" I asked, still curious as to why he'd come alone if he thought the man so dangerous.

"I have my methods," he said evasively.  "Are you . . . all right?" he asked, eyeing my empty left sleeve.

I looked at him for a few moments, then said truthfully, "I don't know."  I wanted to say more, I _needed_ to say more, but I couldn't force the words past my lips.  Even to Charles.

_Especially_ to Charles.

He must have seen or sensed something amiss, because he moved closer to me.  "What did he do. . . ."  He cut himself off when he saw the marks on my neck, and for a moment, I thought I saw fury in his eyes before the impenetrable mask slid back into place.  "Did he. . . ?"

I drew in a steadying breath.  "My questionable virtue is still intact, if that's what you mean."

My virtue may be intact, but I wasn't quite sure about the rest of me.  This encounter had shaken me more than I liked to admit, even to myself.  I thought I had conquered the ghost of Trevor Deansgate, or at least compartmentalized it deep enough inside that I didn't think of it consciously any more.  Gordon Pearson had left me unsettled, adrift, and searching for an anchor to steady myself.

I was afraid Charles would pursue the matter further, but instead he said, "Is he in the basement?"

"Yes."

"Alive?"

I was shocked and let it show.  "Charles!  Of course, he is!"

He gave me another one of his impenetrable looks, and it was suddenly driven home to me that under his veneer of aristocratic benevolence, he was still an admiral, and one did not rise to the stratified heights of a military organization by being squeamish.  I wondered exactly what his long naval career had entailed . . . and what he was capable of now.

It seemed I didn't know him half as well as I'd thought. 

I reached for the telephone to call the police, but Charles stopped me with a hand on my wrist.  "No, wait a few minutes, if you will."

It wasn't a request.  I looked up at him, trying to find answers in his eyes, but it was a fruitless exercise as usual.

He didn't release my wrist.

"Charles. . . ."

I saw something flash again in his eyes, and I realized he wasn't accustomed to having his orders disobeyed.  Somehow I knew that if I didn't agree, he would simply reach down and yank the phone cord from the wall.

Sighing, I said, "All right, Charles, but I don't see. . . ."

"I will not be long."  Without a backward glance, he headed down the hallway toward the basement.  It was quite obvious I was not welcome to come along.

Limping down the hall, I found the sitting room and decided to give my throbbing knee a rest.  I sank gratefully into an armchair and tried to puzzle out the enigma who had once been my father-in-law.  I wondered how he knew Gordon Pearson.  I wondered how he knew him well enough that he not only know his house's location, but also its layout.  I wondered what he wanted to speak to Pearson about -- alone.

It was about ten minutes later, still having reached no conclusions, that I heard a door slam and the sound of a car being driven hastily away.

I made my way down the stairs as quickly as I could, but Mr Gordon Pearson was long gone.  I was expecting to see my father-in-law either dead or injured on the floor, but instead I found him gravely examining the ruins of my artificial arm.

"You will need to have this replaced, I see."

"Charles!  What the hell happened?"  The single, empty manacle was still swaying slightly from the ceiling.

I got a raised eyebrow as if to chastise me for my obtuseness, but he answered eventually, "I released him, of course."

"But, Charles, why?"

"Come," he said, ushering me instead toward the stairs, carrying the remains of my mechanical arm.  "We need to talk, and afterwards, if you still wish to involve the police, you can ring them from Aynsford."

_If_ I wished to involve the police?

My head was filled with questions, but I was too off balance by the day's events to argue with him. 

So, as usual, I merely followed where Charles led.

*********************

It was already late evening when we returned to Aynsford.  Charles maintained a steadfast silence for the entire trip, and I knew better than to expect any answers before he was ready.

He headed directly for his wardroom when we arrived, poured me a large brandy and a smaller one for himself. 

"This must be serious," I said after I had seated myself in my usual brocade armchair.  "You're dispensing the good stuff."

He was staring at me again -- the hard, intense stare that I found so unsettling.

When he didn't reply, I felt forced to break the silence myself.  "Why," I asked directly, "did you release Gordon Pearson?  And why should I not involve the police?  There is a matter of kidnapping, you know, if not attempted murder."

"I am quite certain he did not intend to kill you, Sid."

I could tell he was uncomfortable about something, but where most men would get up and pace, Charles would instead become very still.  A very controlled and inscrutable man, my father-in-law, and even more so in the past few days.

"Well, he made a damn good go of feigning it then," I said, confused at Charles' reaction.  He was normally quite concerned about my close calls, and that one had been very close indeed.  And tonight -- well, I couldn't even think about that.

"I take it," Charles continued, changing the subject, "that your client was being blackmailed by Gordon?"

"Yes."

He sat back deeper in his chair and thoughtfully sipped more of his drink.  "Gordon's greatest fault," he continued calmly, "is that he lacks discretion and . . . subtlety.  I've always felt his risk-taking would get him in trouble someday, but I am surprised, to say the least, that he continued stalking you even after he'd discovered you were my . . . son-in-law." 

"Because you know him?"

"Er, yes," he said hesitantly. 

"And is that why you don't want me to involve the police?"

"No," he said, more firmly.  "_That_ was for your client's benefit, and yours.  Or did you really wish his name --  and yours -- to be involved in a case such as this?  Gordon will have most likely, if you were unconscious at any point, obtained . . . pictures, as a trophy of sorts.  He would not tell me if he _did_ obtain them, nor where they might be hidden."

_Good God._  I thought about submitted physical evidence, about the witness box, about the endless publicity afterwards. 

Charles already knew I would hate it immensely, but he also knew it wouldn't stop me, if need be.

"In any case," he continued.  "The point is moot since Gordon will have already left the country.  He will not return, certainly not during my lifetime, and my solicitor will have instructions in the event of my demise.  Gordon has a residence in a country that is not amenable to extradition, and he has agreed to remain there or risk incarceration . . . or worse."  His voice lowered on the last word.

"You're certain of that?"

"Yes," he said firmly.  "We came to an . . . accommodation."  Again, that flash in his eyes, and I wondered exactly how he had convinced Gordon Pearson to accept permanent exile.  "However, he refused to tell me what he threatened _you_ with."

More dangerous ground, and I was too tired to thread a potential minefield right now.  "I would think the obvious threat would be enough."

"Not for you."  His eyes grew distant for a few moments, then snapped back into focus.  "He threatened you the same way Trevor Deansgate did."  It wasn't a question.  "You looked this way before, after you'd disappeared for a week during the Two Thousand Guineas." 

"Charles, please, not now."

"I told you, if I found the right sting, I would use it."

"Trevor Deansgate is ancient history -- he's in prison, and his threats are no longer relevant to me."

"They why are you still shaking?"

I put my treacherous glass on the table and rose abruptly.  I couldn't face this right now -- not when my emotions were still so raw and close to the surface.  It was too dangerous.  I was afraid I would lose even more of myself.

Limping over to the sideboard, I said, "Would you care for another drink, Charles?"

He didn't reply, so I occupied myself by pouring another drink anyway.  When I heard the doorlock click, I looked up in surprise, but Charles was already behind me by the time I'd put down the decanter. 

"No, thank you," he said simply.

I started to turn, but he gripped my right forearm to forestall the movement.  Not making the same mistake as Pearson, he then restrained my left arm with a hand around my biceps. Then he did nothing more than stand behind me, not close enough to touch, but close enough for me to feel his heat. 

"I'll give you an answer for an answer," he said quietly.  "Tell me how Gordon threatened you."

"No," I said, making an attempt to break his hold on my forearm. 

He grabbed my wrist in an effort to consolidate his hold, and I winced at the amount of pressure he exerted.  I stopped struggling and stared at his larger hand wrapped around mine.  I wondered, in a painful flight of fancy, how long it would take a hand to die if Pearson _had_ bound it too tightly. 

I must have stared too long, because Charles suddenly gasped.  He relaxed his hold slightly and said, "Trevor Deansgate threatened to damage your right hand." 

"Actually, he threatened to blow it off with a shotgun."  Keep it cold and clinical, and maybe I could hold myself together.

"Good God, Sid.  No wonder you. . . ."

"I survived Trevor Deansgate.  I survived Gordon Pearson.  I _survived_, Charles."  I made another effort to move away.

He didn't allow it.  "You survived, but you're not whole."

I was suddenly angry.  "No, I'm not whole."  I bent my elbow to display my truncated forearm. "I'll never be whole again."

"That's not what I meant, and you know it.  Trevor Deansgate ordered you to stay away from Tri-Nitro and the Two Thousand Guineas.  And you still haven't dealt with that fact -- dealt with giving into his threats, have you?"

I relaxed into his hold, my brief spurt of anger and energy spent.  "I'm doing the best I can, Charles."

"No, you're not, because you still don't know how to ask for help."

"I . . . can't.  You know that.  I've never been able to."  I shook my head.  "Ask your daughter, I'm sure she'll tell you."

He bent closer to me, his voice dropping an octave.  "I don't have to _ask_, Sid."

I felt my breathing increase -- fight or flight, I knew, but I couldn't tell which one was foremost.  And I'd never felt either with Charles before. 

Charles must have felt my reaction, but he said only, "You want to know how I know Gordon Pearson?"

I nodded, not trusting my voice.

"Are you certain, Sid, _truly_ certain, that you wish to know the answer?"

_You're not ready to face this yet,_ he had said, what seemed like a lifetime ago.

Perhaps I wasn't sure, but I needed to know the truth nonetheless.  "The truth is rarely pure and never simple," Oscar Wilde had written, and I thought it almost hysterically appropriate, given this particular situation.

"You told me he was your colleague once." 

"In a manner of speaking," he said, closing the tiny gap remaining between us.  "He was my student."

"Your. . . ." I cut myself off, frankly disbelieving.  "But you're nothing like him."

"I certainly hope not," he said indignantly. "I told you, he never learned subtlety . . . nor patience.  And you require . . . a great deal of patience." 

He put one hand on my forehead and tipped my head gently toward him, so that the back of my head was resting against his chest.  He then slipped one thigh between mine and took a small step backward, so that my torso -- and most of my weight -- was pressed firmly against his. 

It should have felt awkward, but it wasn't.  It should have felt horribly confining to me, but he didn't apply more than the gentlest of pressure.  It felt, oddly enough, like the limitless, almost weightless time between a horse's take-off and its landing on the far side of a fence.  It felt like flying.  It felt like . . . _freedom_.

"With your stubborn pride," Charles said, "he would have broken you, trying to bend you to his will."  He paused.  "I have been waiting _years_ for you, Sid," he said quietly.  "For you to admit something to yourself."

_He knows_, I thought dimly, feeling myself respond to his almost-touch like I'd never responded to anyone before.

"You can't ask for comfort, Sid, but you can be _forced_ to accept it."

I couldn't reply.  My pride, he had said.  My stubborn, masochistic pride, but he had known.  The Admiral had always known.

"Will you allow me to show you the way?"

I realised then that I didn't need to reply, because Charles _knew_ I would follow where he led.

Just as I always had.

 

**end**


End file.
